


The Drunken Whaler

by Lamprey



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamprey/pseuds/Lamprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What will we do with a drunken whaler? A fic inspired by the "Drunken Whaler" song and the Outsider. A young man recovering from alcoholism takes a trip with his father, who is the captain of a new advanced whaling ship. He writes about his strange experiences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drunken Whaler

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to “Drunken Whaler” a way too much and came up with a little story about it and the Outsider. About possibly the first time he walked among men. Pretentious Moby Dick references ahead. Also subpar first-person perspective, which I hate writing. Also I miiight be a little inaccurate on the whaling practices, just warning you.

 

 **Day 1**  
Call me an observer. Passenger, recovering alcoholic, hopeful heir to a floating piece of metal, whatever you wish. The wayward son gone on his first whaling expedition with his father on his new whaling trawl. The university wash-out with nowhere else to go. A young man that despises writing.

The doctor advised me to keep a journal of my recovery process, my father advised a good hearty whaling trip on the first of the new whaling trawls called the  _Ann Alexander._ He believes it to be good to keep the drunk from me. I do not foresee this trip nor this journal keeping me from the bottle, but nonetheless I will follow both their wishes.  
  
We set sail this morning from Dunwall, going north towards Pandyssia, covering a record amount of knots, though I barely noticed as I was leaned over a bucket most of the time, retching my precious few remnants of land food. My father believed it was just my body rejecting all the land poison from my body and that it would soon be at home once it was nothing but open sea around us. That thought caused a particular violent spasm on my part and I discarded the rest of my stomach into that bucket. I do not look forward to the jellied eels and hag-fish in brine.  
  
What I wouldn’t give for a drink.  
  
 **Day 2**  
Ironic how headaches seem so much worse now that I have ceased drinking, the current pain in my head rivals any hangover I have had the misfortune of experiencing. I am sure this pain is being aided by my seasickness and constant inability to sleep well since my father dumped all my bottles into the harbor.  
  
I could barely keep the tremors from my hands as my father took me on a tour of his trawl, nor could I keep myself on my feet with the shoes I had. Luckily, my father had an extra pair of black boots that kept grip better than my sodden, leather loafers so I looked less like a drunken fool going around the ship. At least I had the sense to bring my wind-resistant jacket, it works well when buckled, the high collar protects me against the chilly winds on the sea.  
  
I met most of the crew. A few were very pleasant, though I could not tell if they were friendly or friendly to the captain’s son. Most did not like me one bit. I could see the disdain behind their eyes and hear them scoff at me. I cannot fault them, I would not want me to be their captain, either, with any luck. I have not the stomach to be on the sea hunting these majestic creatures and destroying them for profit. I hope at the end of this expedition, my father will realize the same.  
  
I wonder if my father forbade the crew from bringing alcohol? Likely not, this would have surely caused a mutiny by now. Perhaps I will inquire tomorrow. A small drink would do wonders for this accursed seasickness.  
  
 **Day 3**  
We finally saw a pod of whales today, they looked like moving islands with geysers and made me more miserable about hunting them. My father’s ship is incredibly fast, we are already farther east than any ship has been, closer to Pandyssia. One of them even stuck its tail up, it seemed to me to be waving at us. The crew spotted a large, older one with a chunk of its tail missing and they went out in motorboats fueled by the very commodity they were harvesting from the whales. They scattered the rest of the pod away from their target. The whales tried to protect their own but were driven off by the small, maneuverable boats dipping electrified rods into the water to deter them.  
  
When the crew finally drove off the rest of the pod, they turned their attentions towards the isolated one and kept it in one place while my father steered the harpoon gun installed at the brow of the  _Ann Alexander_  towards the poor creature. I was summoned to the captain’s quarters, and given the “honor” of pressing the button that would send the sharp, serrated five foot spearhead into the whale’s massive head. It flew like a bolt from a crossbow and I saw it embed into the whale’s skull with a puncture and a twitch, like the moment before a balloon deflates.  
  
I thought I heard it scream, but maybe it was my nerves, and my mind giving voice to an animal I did not want to see harmed. I winced severely when the harpoon hit, I was relieved my father was too occupied shouting jubilations at his crew over the PA system to notice me keel over in a fit of nausea. It is vexing though, I do not know how many days of me looking sickly and my lack of enthuse about his profession will convince him to not give the business to me.  
  
I could not stand to see them drag the whale in and string him up like a bloated puppet unto the deck to prep for flensing, so I retired early to my cabin. Luckily, the celebration over catching the largest specimen anyone has laid eyes on meant casks of rum being bought out for consumption, and a crew member offered a mug to me as I passed. Said I was looking too pale and needed some blush on my cheeks. I took it with gratitude and stole into my room and locked the door.  
  
I should be better than this but I really need this mug. That feeling of floating, like nothing can drag me down. Especially tonight. Besides, it is only one mug.  
  
 **Day 4**  
I had a strange dream last night, no doubt inspired by yesterday. I saw the whale pod swimming from underwater. Or perhaps they were swimming through a dark, overcast sky, I could not tell. There was whalesong echoing everywhere, even though there was no end to this ocean, or air, or nothingness. I came closer, or perhaps I swam, to see harpoons sticking out of their heads like horns and I slipped, or perhaps I sank or fell and woke up with a start. It seems drinking one mug did queer things to my head. And being at sea and constantly sick. I absolutely hate the sea. I had forgotten how bad a hangover feels and it left me with a splitting and a low-toned singing in my ears that still has not dissipated.  
  
My father dragged me out of bed to oversee the flensing of the whale. He is in high spirits about our bonding experience, though he fails to see how one-sided it is. I could feel sorry for him having such a useless son if I was not the useless son myself, feeling pathetic about himself. If only he can see why I sought life on land and not at sea! Still, I cannot resent him for what he wants to believe. Perhaps I will show him this journal when we return to land and be done with this legacy.  
  
The flensing was terrible, awful. A team of six went at the giant with scalpels as tall as a man. The whale was not completely dead and twitched as the first sliced its skin off in thin, neat squares. I could see the blood vessels pumping weakly in each square, and every weak little twitch in the skinned muscles. Thin rivulets of blood ran from every single cut on the whale, right into its eyes but it could not blink them away. The deck became a shallow pool of blood with floating bits of blubber and skin and who knows what. My stomach thankfully did not lose its hearty meal of salted sardines and Gristol apples, but it felt like at any second I was going to add its mixture to the ghastly soup on the deck. I was tasked with hosing down the deck. Thank goodness for the boots my father gave me, or else I would have slipped and dirtied my pants and leather jacket with bits of whale. I would have lost my meal for sure, then.  
  
It took all day, but they managed to strip the whale completely of its blubber (it mercifully stopped twitching halfway through), and the crew loaded the blubber into wheelbarrows to take to the trypots near the rear of the ship. These new whaling trawls come installed with its own tryworks so that the ships can remain at sea longer and bring in bigger and bigger whales faster and more efficiently than before. Perfected harvesting machines. The thought makes my blood run colder than it is now.  
  
I tried to at least act the role of captain’s son and wheel blubber to the trypots but I nearly spilled it all over the slick deck. Thankfully, my father was nearby and helped me wheel it over but I could see the smirk and derision on every crew mate I passed by. My father was holding his handle with nary an effort, while I had to hold my handle with both my skinny arms, waddling like a duck. I felt like a giant fool.  
  
They prepared seared whale meat, but I have no appetite so I stole back to my cabin, though not before stealing a bottle from the table. I care little if this sets me back weeks, if I do not drink now and get it in my system, I am just going to drink myself to death when we return to land.  
  
Tomorrow, they will strip the whale of its meat, and then its guts, and then its bones. If only I could observe that drunk without my father noticing the stink of alcohol on my breath.  
  
Day 5  
I thought the previous day would be the worst to get through, but today is even worse and I do not know what to make of it.  
  
A rash of bad luck and tragedy has marred our trip. A crewmate had gotten so drunk last night that he stumbled to the cargo hold and fell and passed out on the floor. I had snuck in to try to find more bottles and tripped over his half-eaten body, and nearly got eaten alive myself by an infestation of bull rats in our cargo hold.  
  
No one knows how we managed to get an infestation of rats, my father believes they snuck in with our food we received from the port. A few crew mates looked at me, like I was a smuggled rat myself.   
  
Every crew mate took their flensing knife and had to hunt the entire trawl for rats in teams of three, slicing and spearing them through. I managed to stab a few with an old harpoon my father lent me, something he kept from his old days of whaling. It took the entire day to flush out and kill every rat, and everyone is on alert for any rat feces or squeaking from corners and walls.  
  
We had to toss overboard most of the food that we had after the rats got in. We do not have enough canned food to tide over the crew so my father has started the journey home, just one whale in tow. Morale is low, one whale means fewer profits and a good deal of wasted time. I could not be more overjoyed, I have had enough of this trip and the sea and bloody whales and enough rats for a lifetime.  
  
Last night I dreamt again, but not of the vast nothingness where the whales swim through the air. It felt real, smelled real like there was salt in my nostrils. I was on the deck of the  _Ann Alexander,_  looking at the skinned whale. I had a flensing knife in my hand and I cut the belly open but no wet, bloody, oily entrails burst forth. It was a swarm of rats and I tripped on the wet deck and they devoured me. I woke screaming and I pulled on my clothes to go to the deck. I do not know what I was expecting, but I was relieved to discover the skinned thing still strung up, its belly intact.  
  
I would have attributed to nerves and the bottle and the previous day had I not stumbled upon the poor unfortunate crewmate while searching for some liquor to calm myself, his eyeballs and face eaten to the bone white, his backbone sticking out. The rats were hopping after me, their bloodied long teeth pointed up towards me. And right after my dream! I do not know if my mind heard the squeak of the rats in the walls and invaded my dreams with that devouring swarm. These same rats ate that poor man.  
  
I doubt I will drink tonight. Or sleep. I am not sure if it’s the bottle giving me dreams but I do not want to take any chances.  
  
 **Day 6**  
I still dreamt last night, though blessedly unmarked by nightmares or falling or rats from whale’s bellies but woefully short. I heard a lot of soothing whalesong and I was floating, but not drowning. Like being drunk but still having my mind intact. My mind seems so easily influenced by the goings on in waking life. I only hope today’s events don’t foretell a nightmare tonight.  
  
Bad luck continues to haunt this ship. There have now been two deaths! This has been a most unfortunate journey and I will be glad to put the sea behind me.  
  
Alcohol is once again the root of this most recent unfortunate incident. I was in the hold watching a particularly competitive game of cards between two crewmates, both of whom were hopelessly drunk. One of them starts losing, I believe Obfendo was his name. He is watching the other gloat and hoot over his cards, then becomes very quiet and he takes out this loaded pistol and shoots him right in the heart, all calm and sudden, like he was shooting at a bottle. I was not the only witness, three others were watching.  
  
They keep a metal cage for rowdy, usually drunk crew mates, but this is the first time it has ever been used to keep a murderer. Obfendo did not even say a word or put a fight when the three other crew members took him to the cage while I summoned my father, remained silent even when my father questioned him, and still silent when we four all agreed the other sailor had been shot dead. It was not until he was in the cage for half an hour that he starts going mad. Raving! He had a fit like a rabid hound, rattling the bars with his arms and froth falling from his mouth, his pupils small and the whites of his eyes bloodshot.  
  
He’s blaming me! Me! Claiming he fell into the gaze of my eyes and that I compelled him to shoot his friend. He pointed his finger at me, shaking, shouting how black my eyes were. The other three witnesses corroborated that I was only watching, though they seemed unsettled by Obfendo’s fit, even though we were all watching the same event unfold! Perhaps he had been bitten by a rat and infected by some sort of rabid fit? I am no spiritual man, but Obfendo was like a man possessed, screaming with his gritted teeth and pointing his frantic finger at me. There is something very wrong on this ship and we are unable to get off of this ship.  
  
And everyone seems to think I am the source of the bad luck. I hear them whispering stealing glances at me, jaws set tightly. They think I am bad luck personified, but I am the one that feels cursed. It helps none that they already resent me for being the captain’s son, and an awful one at that. I have spent most of the journey sitting down or curled over a bucket, looking green.  
  
I do look terrible, though, like a ghost or walking dead, admittedly. I believe I would think myself a wraith too if I walked by. There are dark circles around my eyes, perhaps that was what Obfendo was so unsettled by. My short, cropped, black hair is starting to sneak its way onto my forehead. I do not recognize my gaunt, thin appearance, the food here and my inability to keep the contents of my stomach done have done me no favors. Neither has my inability to sleep well and long.  
  
I feel compelled to the bottle, but after seeing the chaos it creates, I think I will skip it again tonight and hope for another peaceful dream, maybe sleep that lasts more than a couple hours.  
  
 **Day 7**  
I did not get a peaceful dream, despite being full of loud, wailing whalesong again. I was drowning, actually drowning, the brine stung my nostrils, my throat, the insides of my eyelids and the surface of my eyeballs. My chest was being crushed by the pressure of the ocean, but I was drowning in nothing, in some dark, overcast, gray and purple sky. And there was a huge pair of eyes looking at me, blacker than being blind in complete darkness, staring as my pupils rolled into the back of my head and I felt my chest squeeze impossibly tight.  
  
The moment I felt my eyeballs pop out of my head was the moment I woke with sweat everywhere. It was still early in the morning, but I was too frightened to go back to bed. I cannot take much more of this, we are still 2-3 days out from the port at Dunwall. I want to go home, I want to feel my feet on land, I want to be off this ship. I think I’m going mad, or this whole world is.  
  
Obfendo has withdrawn further into himself. In an effort to be anything more than useless, I gave him his meals today, and he was curled up on the ground, whispering. I could not hear anything he was saying. But when I gave him his dinner, he was singing just one line over and over again.  
  
“Stuff him in a sack and throw him over.”  
  
I dropped his dinner in a frightened fit and ran from the hold. I have locked myself in my room, with a dull cleaver rusting terribly on its edges for safety, though I do not know from what. I am going to drink this whole bottle and hope to whatever is out there that I do not wake up. This is certainly a better way to go than drowning, or being shot by a pistol, or eaten by rats.  
  
In case this is my last entry, I am sorry, Father.  
  
 **Day 8**  
It is over for me. I did not get my wish, and I woke up with an intense wailing in my head and ears and a bloody cleaver in my hand. I have thrown my chair and bed against the door, but the crew is almost done hacking through my door, shouting curses and spitting at me like a pack of hounds.  
  
Four men are dead, including Obfendo, red grins on their throats, murder weapon in my hand, and scores of witnesses who saw me do the bloody deeds. I do not remember it, I do not remember it at all, all I remember is I dreamt I was drowning but I fell into impossibly giant black eyes and whalesong, always whalesong! I have gone mad, it is the sea, it is the drink, it is the bloody whales.  
  
They mutinied, the men, I cannot fault them for doing what I would do. They tied my father up after he tried to stop them and they are going to get me, stuff me in a sack and throw me over like Obfendo sang. I hope they spare my father after this. He did not deserve a miserable, weak, mad, murdering drunken son like me. I am mad, I am completely mad. I killed men, and I do not know why.  
  
I do not want to drown. I do not want to die.  
  
I cannot swim.  
  
 _(from the journal of the captain of the Ishmael, frigate from Redmoor)_  
We found the  _Ann Alexander_  floating like a bloated body only a few miles from Dunwall. The whale they had caught was a mass of flies and rats and had an overwhelming stench of death and rot. It was still strung up like a morbid specimen. You can see the surface of the whale bulge here and there from the mass of maggots and rats that thrived in it. Its green, shriveled entrails covered every surface of the deck.  
  
We sent a small team to inspect the ship. It was like an island of hell, contained in a trawl. The entire crew save for the captain were in various states of consumption. It seems all of them were eaten alive by the rats. Some had already been reduced to bloody skeletons, slivers of muscles still clinging to the bones. We even saw some half-chewed bones scattered in a ghastly sprinkling throughout the ship.  
  
We found the captain locked in a cage in the hold, looking not much better than the corpses we saw. He was mad. Absolutely mad. He did not seem to understand our questions, and he looked at us with eyes that were not really seeing what was in front of him. We managed to get him out after restraining him and he kept barking about his son. When we told him he was the only survivor we found, he turned to us and stated that he sees his son in his dreams and his eyes are black like the deepest depths of the oceans. Poor man, I am not sure if he’s talking about a son that was killed in this tragedy on the _Ann Alexander_ or a long-dead son.  
  
We sedated him on the ship with a sleep draught and are heading back to Dunwall right now. I am not sure what happened on his ship, I only have a crazed man to tell me his sordid tale, if he even can. There is a dark hand in this, and I must report to the Overseers, I heavily suspect the Outsider’s influence in this.  
  
What bad luck though, for our first, advanced whaling trawl fall victim to this misfortune! We set the whale oil engine alight and watched the whole cursed barge burn with bright blue flames. One of the harpooners tried to keep morale up with a song he came up with, something about punishing a drunken whaler. I do not care for it, myself, it is a very morbid sort of song, but nevertheless I sang along with my crew all the way back to Dunwall.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sure when the Litany on White Cliff happened, nor what the Outsider’s form was before that and if he appeared as he does before the industrialization, so this is fulfills a little headcanon I had about why the Outsider’s form is so damn consistent and seems to dress like a citizen of Gristol.


End file.
